Harry's Home
by Acid and Sinick
Summary: Since childhood Harry had dreamed of a home of his own...


Inspired by **Saridout**'s wonderful artwork Time: [http : / / asylums. insanejournal. com / snarry_games / 207675. html]

**Harry's Home**  
by **sinick** and **ac1d6urn**

Since childhood Harry had dreamed of a home of his own, with wide windows to let in the sunlight and country air, and tall trees to shield the roof from rains, and staircases with no cupboards under them at all. Its cozy kitchen, like the one at the Burrow, would have a whistling kettle on the stove and two holes in the back door: a hatch for owl post, and a doggy door, so Sirius could use whatever shape he liked when he and Remus dropped by for a cuppa or a glass of something stronger.

In fifth year, Harry's dream home had an owlery for Hedwig's chicks and was within walking distance of Dumbledore's house. The Headmaster would visit for tea and sherbet lemons, and share the latest happenings at Hogwarts while Hedwig sat and hooted softly at Fawkes.

Years later - when Harry thought he'd finally come to terms with the losses of war, and returned to the land of the living - a house went on sale in Godric's Hollow.

The house had weathered many harsh winters alone, abandoned for years in favour of other, newer places to live, before it went back on the market at last. It was the size of the Shrieking Shack, and had all the creaks and groans of old wood to match. But Harry could always oil the door hinges, replace the cracked glass, and fix the loose shingles on the roof. Repairs would be a small price for to pay for the sense of calm that stole over him as he stood in the silence, surrounded by empty rooms, and thought _This could be home_.

As well as that atmosphere of peace, the house had many more tangible things to recommend it. It was within walking distance, not to Dumbledore's, but to his parents' empty home. It had a pet door with its own enchanted doorknocker: a bronze beagle's head that twitched its nose and recognised the four-legged inhabitants by scent before letting them in; but if it smelled a strange animal, it locked its door tight enough to keep out a Grim. The kitchen window looked out over the garden, and a round wrought-iron table in its midst: large enough to seat four, or five if they sat close and used small plates. A miniature owlery towered over the broomshed, like a disgruntled bird perched in the centre of the roof.

The outside of the house was clad in weathered, time-darkened wood, with white trim on the window shutters. The contrast reminded Harry of the thin, crisp line of Professor Snape's sleeves, against the darkness of his robes. Harry continued his investigations inside. The upstairs rooms smelled of wilting leaves; the cellar, of snails and mud. Harry spotted a splash of colour from an upstairs window. Lilies were growing wild in the garden, and ivy climbed the apple trees and the fence.

Alone with the house, Harry fancied he could almost hear a soft whisper, as if someone beyond the grave was trying to reach him, talk to him. Harry welcomed the feeling: it was as if all the people he'd ever wanted to invite into his home were already here.

He could still natter to Sirius and Remus in the kitchen, over a single cup of steaming tea. Could stare into the fireplace and listen to Dumbledore's tales. Could watch Hedwig nesting in her new owlery, and tidy the place in case Mum and Dad dropped by on the weekend. "Constant vigilance!" Moody would mutter as Harry checked the wards along the fence and the front door. "Bugger vigilance, mate, get an extra-bitey doorknob!" Fred would grin.

It was all in the silence of the house, if you knew how to listen. How to wait for the things that went unsaid. Harry could. He had enough patience to survive six years of Snape's lectures.

Harry's quiet communion was broken once Ginny flooed in with a crackling explosion of flames and a wailing James in her arms. After that, there was hardly time to think, even after all the furniture from their Edinburgh flat was unshrunk, untransfigured, and placed in the proper rooms. The noise and the clutter and the new enchantments and household spells drove the whispery voices out of his head for good. Apart from one that stayed stubbornly behind, lurking to question Harry as he fell asleep every night: _Why are you here?_ Even if that voice began to sound more and more like Snape, Harry knew it belonged to him alone.

After the first few years in the new house, even that last, lingering voice faded. It was drowned out by everything else that was going on in his life: his frustration (with James' grudges over sharing his bedroom when Teddy visited), his amusement (over slobbery toddler Al returning the bronze beagle's licking) and his worry (about Lily's tendency to catch every cold that was going round Godric's Hollow).

By then the village had grown used to the Ministry's attention, the reporters; even the neighbours didn't mind being asked once in a while about the Boy Who Lived. Harry Potter, the Has-been Hero.

Harry knew that no matter how old he was, or how many children he had, he'd always be the _Boy_ Who Lived. Though it was damned unfair, because it took him just as much effort to achieve the later things in his life. Wonderful things, like building a family and knowing who his friends were. Yeah, Harry couldn't have everything, but life was all about making the best of what you did have.

Harry still cleaned on the weekends. Not because his parents might visit, of course, but because James and Al left the place in too much of a mess.

Aberforth would visit every so often, bringing one or another of his pet goats with him. They were nothing like Fawkes, but they each did different tricks. The one which played dead fascinated James no end. Aberforth kept Harry up to date with the gossip from Hogsmeade. Neither of them talked about the war; either war. When Harry told him that Lily's middle name was Ariana, Aberforth's face went blank behind his scraggly beard. He rose to his feet and left, with a quick nod of farewell but no further words. They never mentioned it again.

George, Luna and Neville, Hermione and Ron would drop by for tea, and together the seven of them would sit out in the garden and talk. They'd plan Quidditch games around the broomshed, where Ginny's quaffles were stacked like cabbage heads next to Harry's old brooms. They didn't get far, because they were still missing a decent Beater. Harry hoped that Lily at least would show an interest in chasing a snitch when she was older, since bookish James hated sports, and Al loved everything for about five seconds but didn't have the patience to practice for an hour.

Life was good. Harry was living his dream. It was a worthwhile dream, satisfying and real. But Harry was always aware, in the back of his mind, that the dream wasn't whole; the way a jigsaw puzzle, no matter how large and bright, needed to only be missing one piece to be incomplete.

Out of all the people who died, Snape wasn't in Harry's thoughts too often. Only in summer, when Harry had to repaint narrow windowsills with white as crisp as Snape's sleeves. Only in autumn, when the trees shed raggedy, bat-winged leaves that fluttered as they fell. Only in winter, when he went down to the cellar for Ginny's pickled pumpkins and beetroots. The cellar walls were lined with shelves full of dusty jars, and the pickles looked like potions ingredients; the cellar still smelled of damp stone and snails. Only in spring... not so often with the kids around, but when they left for school the house grew quiet again. Then, every whisper, every sneering screech of the door brought to mind Harry's old obsessions, dreams, and regrets.

Harry aged, but the house stayed the same as the years went by: slightly worn, slightly bitter, non-aging, non-dying. Like long-gone dreams, once almost-fulfilled, now unachievable. Like a photograph, sealed behind glass like a fly in amber. Like memories, silver and sinuous, swirling inside a flask protected by as many Unbreakable and Impervius and Preserving charms as Harry could cast.

As Harry settled down to sleep - in his bed, or by the cradle, on alone on the couch - he felt as if the house heard and understood his unspoken wishes and deepest secrets. He felt it enfolding him in the shroud of its sombre stillness. He knew that no matter what the night would bring, he would be protected and warm. No matter what happened in the world outside, here he and his would be safe.

Year after year, that unspoken promise came true. Harry was safe in the house, all his life. As he watched his children grow up and his friends grow old. As he rejoiced and celebrated the births and the marriages, and grieved the deaths. As he said his goodbyes and let go of those who were leaving.

Not even the dubious chances of treatment could persuade Harry to leave home, when he knew his time was short. The old house had always been murmurous, full of creaks and rustles and quiet whisperings, but lately it had been even more so. Until now it sighed all around him, like a sleeper drawing a breath. As if a door somewhere far away, deep within it was slowly starting to open. Harry knew the house inside and out, but he couldn't tell where that door was. He could sense the seconds of his life ticking away, he could feel his heart skip a beat, but inside the house it was still warm, it was still safe. And Harry still had the old, familiar question ringing in his mind: _Why am I here?_

Apart from visits from the kids, he'd lived alone here for years, ever since Ginny left him. But he had few regrets. Except for one... a man who was stern and worn as his home's exterior, silent and dark as his room at night, secretive and protective as the wards around the perimeter. He'd always kept Harry safe. And even though Harry had said his goodbyes to others, he'd never had a chance to talk to Severus Snape: not to the real man, as opposed to the mask the war had made him wear. Perhaps that sense of unfinished business was why the man was never too far from Harry's thoughts: a fixture in his life as constant as the flickering shadows thrown by the candlelight.

And now he was waiting with held breath and hammering heart, listening to something like the sound of a distant door, opening. A visitor? Not an ordinary kind, but Harry expected that. Expected death. Because what other kind of visitor would it be? He wasn't afraid of death. OK, maybe a bit afraid, but not of dying exactly. It wasn't as though he hadn't done that before. No, what worried him now was the idea of seeing the one person he'd most wanted to get to know, but had never had the chance. _What would I say to him? _

"Harry," The voice was as familiar as the noises of the house, as quiet as the rustle of leaves against the roof.

_This doesn't feel like dying at all._

A gentle brush of fingertips on the back of his hand. Warm. So warm.

_Are you real? Please be real!_ Harry opened his eyes.

"Time to go," said Severus Snape.

With the sprightly energy of a fawn, Harry rose. He was in the same room, the same house, but he couldn't tear his gaze away from Snape long enough to see what else was different. It didn't matter. Snape was with him, just as he'd always been, in the back of Harry's mind, filling the silences of his life. Seeing him now, for the first time since that horrible day, drove home how young Severus had been when Harry lost him. Years, decades younger than Harry's children. Too young to die. But Harry couldn't feel that lifelong regret: not now. He drank his fill of the sight of the man he'd missed, and felt himself beaming. _I'm home_, he knew. _I'm finally home._ "This is heaven."

"Now it is."

Since childhood Harry has dreamed of a home of his own. It has wide windows to let in the sunlight and country air, and tall trees to shield the roof from rains, and staircases with no cupboards under them at all. In its cozy kitchen, the kettle whistles cheerfully when the water boils for tea. Two mugs share the kitchen counter with tins of broom polish and twig oil, jars of gillyweed and beetle eyes. Quidditch gloves are slung across the back of a chair, and asphodel hangs drying in the window.

But the home's occupants are outside as often as in, lured out by the garden and the golden leaves scattering like snitches on the wind. There's no use drying these leaves for potions, but Harry chases them anyway. He hangs off his broom, under Severus' protective, Quidditch-referee gaze, and captures a fluttering scrap of gold in midair: a flyaway dream, finally within reach.


End file.
